Page 188 of Darling Venom
He steepled his fingers, tucking them beneath his chin. “If the book is indeed in your care, why would you let me read it?”
“Why wouldn’t I let you read it? You’re his father.”
He howled with laughter, smacking his hand against his thigh. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I was called anything but Sperm Donor and Sperm Donor Dearest.”
“Tate’s manners leave a lot to be desired.” And I don’t blame him. “But Kellan never called you that.”
Something like guilt rippled across Terry’s face.
He sobered in an instant. “Kellan was a decent kid. Too naïve for his own good.”
“He looked up to you.”
“Like I said. Too naïve for his own good.”
“Naïve or not, he admired you. Which is why I’m here.”
He patted his boxers and pulled out a soft pack of Winstons from the waistband. I stilled. I hated cigarettes for obvious reasons. He held a match between his fingertips, but he didn’t light it.
It seemed like he was waiting for the worst, and it suddenly shifted the tides in my favor.
Terry nodded for me to continue.
“Kellan asked me to complete his book. Actually, he challenged me to. I made a few passes of edits and received positive feedback from an acquisitions editor.”
“You shopped it around?” He sounded disappointed.
I tried to ignore yet another sign that loomed over me like a harbinger and named the publisher Helen worked for.
Terry whistled, plucking the cigarette from his lips. “How’d you pull that off?”
“I work for Rothschild Literary and Management.”
“And this
editor… He wants to buy it?” He hiccupped.
Is he trashed?
I stilled, then shook my head. I’d told Tate his father had been sober for months. Surely, Terry wouldn’t break that sobriety just to lounge around and watch Fresh Prince in his underwear.
“She is interested. Very interested. She handed me notes and told me to get back to her once I complete the edits. Which is where you come in.”
He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, pointing it at me. “You need my help.”
“I do.”
“What’s in it for me?” The words spat out of him in a flash. Like a reflex.
Was he serious?
No wonder Tate loathed him.
“Other than the joy, privilege, and honor of helping your son’s book get published?”
“I’m broke,” he explained. “And I haven’t been sober for about two and a half decades.”
I felt duped. Like an idiot. Falling for the sobriety act when Terrence Marchetti’s entire history suggested otherwise.
